Echoes and Imprints
by coffeewithsnark
Summary: Ash knows he is not the person he once was. Jealousy spoilers, Dru/Ash.


**A/N**: This is a one-shot taking place somewhere after _Jealousy_, and is in no way connected to my current WIP, _The Color of Rain_. I realize this is an unusual pairing, but I wanted to give it a try.

_Disclaimer_: Nothing in this fic belongs to me. Lyrics are from "Crossfire" by Brandon Flowers.

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**Echoes and Imprints**

_There's a still in the street outside your window / You're keepin' secrets on your pillow_

He sits and stares out at the night sky, bottle dangling from one hand. The distant stars twinkle merrily above, blissfully unaware of the misery far below them. Gazing up, Ash is forced to remind himself that they are merely imprints, echoes of light long since burnt out. He grimaces, taking another deep swig of the amber-colored liquid, feeling it burn as it slides down his throat.

The door glides open behind him, but he doesn't twist around. "Hey," a quiet voice says, and Ash finds himself turning around just to make sure he isn't imagining things. After all, he would recognize that voice anywhere. It is the same voice that coaxed him through his nightmares, the one guiding him through the darkness, and the one he still hears echoing in his dreams each night.

Dru shuffles closer to him, eyeing the bottle in his hand with one raised eyebrow. But there is no judgment there, nor pity. She collapses on the ground next to him, holding out one pale hand silently.

He hands the bottle to her wordlessly, watching with fascination as the muscles in her throat flex while she swallows, wiping her mouth with one hand before returning the bottle. Even in the dark, her eyes seem to burn into his soul, deeper than the sucker's ever had. The sliver of moon provides very little light to go by, but he doesn't need any light to see the arch of her brow, or the curve of her throat.

_Let me inside, no cause for alarm / I promise tonight not to do no harm_

"I assume," he begins finally, voice rough from the whiskey, "that someone sent you out here to drag the drunken werewulf back inside."

He can just barely make out her smirk, but it's there nonetheless. "Nah," Dru replies, leaning her head against the wall, allowing the dark curls to fall down her back. "Just came out here to see how you were doing."

He grunts, taking another gulp. "Splendid. How about you?"

"Ash." He knows she's giving him what he privately refers to as The Look, the one that clearly says _don't bullshit me_. "Nobody said this was going to be easy. Give yourself some time."

"I've _had_ time," he responds bitterly, gesturing with the bottle and making the liquid swish violently. "All I do is—think. Think about him, and about me. About what I did."

Dru shifts closer to him then, close enough that her scent fills his senses—it's a sweet but spicy smell, like fresh baked cinnamon rolls. God help him. Her long hair brushes his arm, and he sucks in a startled breath. They haven't been this close since—well, since he'd changed back.

_Tell the devil that he can go back from where he came / His fire he airs all through their beating vein_

"Ash." Her voice is low, and rolls over his skin like the breeze on warm summer evening. "What you went through—nobody blames you. Hell, the fact that you're here is… incredible. They all said it couldn't be done, you know."

"Not without you, it couldn't," he whispers back, and immediately regrets it. They have an unspoken agreement to not talk about this thing between them, whatever it is. He's seen the way the half-sucker looks at her, and knows there is more going on between her and the missing wulf than she lets on. She has enough on her plate without him, and the least he can do for her is play along. He owes her that much.

Still, it's hard to pretend in the dark like this, both of them little more than shadowy forms in the moonlight. The whiskey burns through his veins, making him lightheaded, and only serves to add to the surreal quality of the whole situation. This, he knows, is not a conversation either of them could have during the harsh light of day. But maybe—with enough shadows, and liquor coursing through his body—Ash can finally get this heavy thing off his chest. "Dru," he starts again, but is cut off when one cool hand covers his mouth.

His cracked lips brush her palm, and he can actually _hear_ his heartbeat thundering in his ears. She freezes, presumably realizing her mistake. Still, she doesn't move away, and Ash clings to that tiny thread of hope.

_Dark clouds roll their way over town / Heartache and pain came pouring down like chaos in the rain_

Slowly, cautiously, he presses a kiss to her palm, feather-light and gentle as air. She inhales sharply, drawing her hand back.

"Ash—"

He has no idea what she's about to say, because Ash dredges up the last bit of courage surging through him—or is that the liquor?—and pitches forward, sealing his lips across hers. She stiffens, and for a heart-stopping second, he thinks she is going to shove him away.

Instead, though, both hands lift up, curling into his tangled hair. His tongue sweeps across her lips silently, seeking permission. She grants it, sucking on his lower lip and making a low groan reverberate through his body.

She freezes then, and his heart sinks. Both hands slide down his neck and onto his shoulders, gently pushing him away. "Ash." She speaks quietly, though her breath is coming in shallow pants. "We can't do this. I'm sorry." They both know she is speaking in clichés, and she winces.

"Is it him?" He blurts the words out before he can consider the damage they will cause, cringing. Truthfully, Ash doesn't even know which _him_ he's referring to.

As if reading his mind, Dru smiles wryly. "It's not exactly that simple, Ash."

He wants to crawl away, push her away from him and dredge up some semblance of dignity. Still, her body remains pressed up against his—even as her hands push him away uselessly— and Ash can't bring himself to sever that last, final connection between them. "How is anything about this situation simple, Dru?"

She snorts then, dark hair stirring gently in the faint breeze. He has no idea how late it is, if it's even still nighttime or instead the early hours of the morning. All he knows is the scent of her skin as it brushes against his, and the warmth of her body.

_And we're caught up in the crossfire / A heaven and hell / And we're searching for shelter_

"Dru." His voice is ragged, and she reaches up to smooth the hair away from face, making a soft, soothing noise.

"It's late, Ash, and you're drunk. Things will look better in the morning, I swear."

"They never do," he mutters, and her hand stills.

"I know" is her only answer. Feeling his energy ebb away, Ash lowers his head to her shoulder, inhaling deeply. She is a mess of contradictions, his _svetocha_. Both fallible and incorruptible, fierce and gentle, he knows she will never give up on him, just as she will never stop hunting Sergej. She aches to fix him, to heal him and make him whole again, but will never give him the one thing he really wants. So he never asks, and instead the two of them sit silently in the darkness, breathing in the scent of grass and stars as they wait for the impending dawn.

**FIN**

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A/N: **Thanks for reading! Don't forget to let me know what you think.**  
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